Around Noon of Monday, September Fourteenth

[brotherlaurence.livejournal.com]

I have apologized to Kate. Of course, I did it wrong--I always do. But I can't get it out of my head. The dream, which was far too real to me. The apology, which I felt was just...flat. The party, the party with its fear of death and then our departure, fading in the background and then walking her back like I always do. A faint kiss and a soft "goodnight."

The risk, the chance of her apartment is gone. The temptation, the fear of it. I think if we were to even sit beside each other alone at this point she might become terrified. How have I become this person so frightening and so obsessed with the flesh that I cannot relate to someone? To Kate for whom I would release all those things if I could.

I sigh and set down the hammer. The blistering heat feels good with the rain coming down outside, but I still feel a bit lost. My spot was rained out last night. I felt the ground slipping away beneath me. Perhaps it is a sign. Perhaps we should all simply move on.

[OPEN to Kate.]

Comments

[kateohara.livejournal.com]

"OK," he says, and I can tell that it isn't okay, it really isn't. Everything is wrong today and I don't know how to make it right.

"I guess I should see you out," he says tightly, and I wonder if he is angry, or just unhappy like I am.

"Oh, Laurence," I say, my voice choked, because we can't say goodbye like this, formal and cold. I feel like if we do that it's saying goodbye forever. So I stretch my arms up and pull his head down, and I kiss him hard on the lips, my tears smearing across his mouth, and then I walk quickly out into the rain, leaving the pie and umbrella behind me, and that's okay. I want to feel the rain on my face.

[brotherlaurence.livejournal.com]

The kiss shocks me and I want to hold her tight and not let go, but I don't. The wetness of her tears is all I'm left with after a moment. She's gone and finally then I let the tears come and I pick up a clay pot and turn it in my hands. I'm no good with fragile and delicate things, clearly. I toss it into the wall and listen to it shatter.

The old me would take the cat out and pray. The really old me would get dressed and head out. I choose first to go cry in my lean-to, before picking which me I'll be.